


Things Thought Lost

by OctoberSkies



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Assassination Attempt(s), Eventual Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Break Up, Post-Canon, Reunion Fic, Tevinter Imperium, pavellan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-04 18:18:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13370430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctoberSkies/pseuds/OctoberSkies
Summary: It has been over a year since Dorian took up the mantle of Magister and left behind the life he had come to love so dearly in Ferelden. The fight that had ended his relationship with his amatus plagued him more often than he cared to admit, but the demands of his new station had proved a remarkable distraction. But with a desperate need for allies and desperately few available, Dorian makes a less-than-ideal decision to meet with a less-than-trustworthy fellow Magister in the hopes of securing an alliance. When he arrives at the location, he finds more than one surprise awaiting for him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written by request as a continuation of a fic where Varlen and Dorian got into a huge fight about the Tevinter decision. Varlen was supportive of Dorian going but refused to stay behind. Dorian couldn't bear the thought of putting his amatus in danger, and after failing to convince Varlen of the risks, he chose to end the relationship there and then to give Varlen no reason to follow. This story now takes place a year post-Trespasser. I usually just post to Tumblr, but this one got long so I figured I'd put it up here in chapters for ease of reading.

“Magister Pavus?”

Dorian groaned softly, the fingers of his left hand rubbing a tired circle against his temple. “Yes, yes. What is it?”

The scribe entered; a mouse of a thing called Adiran. New to the household, he bobbed his head deferentially, and with the Maker as his witness, Dorian swore the young man’s knees were trembling. “T-There has been a change of venue for your meeting with Magister Tellene. Instead of the upper chambers, she has requested you meet her at the, u-um..." He paused, glancing hurriedly at his board, which quivered and jumped in the air. "The Gilder.”

One dark brow arched high on Dorian’s forehead. “Harbour-side? An interesting choice for a lady with such a notable dislike of salt air.” The young man opened his mouth as if to beg apology, but Dorian quickly waved a hand. “No matter, no matter. Thank you, Adiran. Inform her that I will be present at the agreed upon time.” Typically, Dorian would make a show of rescheduling entirely, as was common practice within the Imperium when one wanted to assert one’s status over another. Or be a little _petty._ However, if he was to ever bring forth discussion of the treatment of slaves in the magisterium, he _needed_ Tellene on side. She was old blood – something that carried great weight in a nation stained red. Her support would be invaluable. Despite his better judgement, he had little choice but to attend whatever she deigned to organise. If he did not establish an alliance now, someone else would inevitably beat him to it. It was not something he could afford.

Sighing softly, he pushed himself to his feet, chair sliding out behind him along the soft carpet. Moving to the floor-length mirror, Dorian took a moment to adjust his attire, tugging his robe slightly, reasserting the perfectly effortless flow required of his cloak. He would not be wearing his insignia of office this time. Not if he was to venture so far from the heart of the Magisterium. It would be interesting, he supposed. He had yet to visit the harbour since his magnificent return to Tevinter. It held a rather significant number of fond memories.

All he hoped was that the meeting would go smoothly, and those memories would not be replaced by something comparably dark.

 

* * *

 

The Gilder was decidedly… unremarkable. Nice, mind you, but most things in that part of the city could at the very least be described as _nice_. Dorian exited his carriage with a nod to his driver, who would wait for however long the meeting took. Adiran hurried out behind him, carrying a stack of papers and ink to transcribe should the casual conversation take a more formal turn. It might not be needed, but Dorian always found it better to be prepared, and the young man seemed as though he would benefit from the excursion.

“Try to calm down,” he said softly to Adian as they approached the establishment. “I brought you here as a member of my household staff. Do try to look the part, yes?”

“Y-Yes, Magister Pavus.” Adiran swallowed tightly, sweat beading on his brow. “I’ll… I can do it. I’ll be fine.”

Dorian’s expression softened slightly as they ascended the steps to the entrance. “There. That’s the spirit. Just stay with me and look interested in what’s happening.” He paused as Adiran hurried forward to get the door, then as he passed, he fixed the scribe with a sidelong glance. “But not _too_ interested.”

The young man paled again. It was a bit cruel to tease him, but Dorian couldn’t help himself. It was the sort of thing that would have earned a soft snort of amusement from his companions back in Ferelden. A touch of the arm. A bright smile. Silver hair swept over one shoulder, blue eyes gleaming with barely contained laughter…

Dorian caught himself mid-thought, startled that his mind had wandered so far from its course. _No. Now is not the time for such… distraction._ He needed to be focused. This meeting could make or break half a year’s worth of work. If his thoughts were elsewhere, it could lead to disaster. He had to deny them, no matter how desperately they wished to elope.

“The meeting is upstairs, Magister Pavus.” Adiran, who had been swift to hurry over to a richly attired man with a ledger, returned just as quickly, his brown hair tousled, green eyes bright with nervous energy. “Shall I lead the way and ah… introduce you? Is that, um… how this goes?”

“Yes. If you please.” Dorian’s response was clipped, his mind still distant as he followed the young man. Why think of Varlen? Why _now_? Was it because there was so much at stake? Was it because he was feeling so very out of his depth?

Or was it because, if he were to be perfectly honest, he would give anything in the world for Varlen to be the one at his side.

 _You are the one who set that ship to sail, you know_ , Dorian chided himself silently as he followed Adiran up two flights of carpeted stairs to the room. _Then you launched a fireball and burned it for good measure. You have no one to blame but yourself. He is not coming back._

It was a bitter thing, to consider how much he had already been forced to give up to become Magister Pavus. Maker’s breath, he had yet to decide if it had even been worth it. Perhaps, if he could do enough good here, he might be able to make it safe. Yes… yes, if he could do that, Varlen might just…

Dorian’s thought was cut short as Adiran knocked meekly on the door of one of the rooms. Good grief, even his _knock_ was mouse-like. Dorian would have to work on that with him; give the young man a bit more _presence_. It would do him no good to come across as so fragile. People are want to take advantage of such individuals, particularly in the Imperium.

There was a soft affirmation from beyond the door, and Adiran took a steadying breath, steeling himself. He glanced back at Dorian, who gave him an encouraging nod despite feeling almost sick with nerves himself. But to offer support was only fair; Dorian had been the one to insist on Adiran’s involvement, after all. It was the least he could do. To Dorian’s surprise, the young man actually mustered a flicker of a smile, standing a little taller before turning the gold-coated handle and pushing open the door. It swung on perfectly oiled hinges, revealing the lamp-lit room beyond. Chin raised, knees still shaking slightly, Adiran stepped in ahead of Dorian, as was protocol. When he spoke, his voice rang out with unexpected clarity.

“Magister Tellene and valued associates, it is my honour to present the esteemed Magister Pavus, son of the late Halward Pavus, member o—”

It had been difficult for Dorian to keep a proud smile off his face at Adiran’s confident tone, but he had managed up until the young man suddenly cut off, his introduction coming to a jarring halt midway through. Dorian frowned, brow creasing in mingled disappointment and concern as he stepped forward to usher Adiran aside, assuming the scribe’s nerves had simply overcome him. No matter. There would be other opportunities for him to practice. He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder comfortingly but firmly. “That is enough with the formalities for n…” Dorian halted the moment he stepped up to Adiran’s side. He caught the young man’s expression. Adiran’s green eyes, once bright with nerves, were blown wide, staring down in shock. His head was barely tilted, frozen in place, colour draining fast from his tanned skin. Bitter dread clawed up the back of Dorian’s throat, and almost reluctantly, he let his own gaze descend.

A hilt, adorned with delicate gold weave, jutted from the centre of Adiran’s stomach.


	2. Chapter 2

“ _Fasta-vass_!” Dorian sprang into action, his time spent fighting with the Inquisition far from forgotten. Magic leaped to his fingertips in less than a frantic heartbeat, but for once the destructive fire of his youth was not the first thing to rise to the occasion. Instead, a barrier rippled around Dorian and the young man, wrapping them in a familiar hum of energy, and it was just in time as another dagger streaked towards them only to be turned aside by the magical shield. A high, panicked whine crawled up the back of Adiran’s throat as blood began to seep around his fingers, wrapped almost protectively around the hilt of the blade. Dorian drew the young man close, hooking him around the waist to keep him on his feet. “Stay with me.” He clenched his teeth as he fought to maintain their defences as another projectile – one far less mundane – was repelled. “Do _not_ pull that out, do you understand? Stay with me.”

There were four figures in the room and no sign whatsoever of Magister Tellene, save the fact that she was likely behind the foul play. Just four assassins against one mage and a young man whose skin had already drained of colour as he entered the first stages of shock. This was beyond bad. In fact, as Dorian attempted to back towards the door, eyes flicking between his assailants, he could think of few more potentially deadly situations in which to find himself. _Foolish_. He should have been more careful. Should not have rushed in so eagerly. His instincts had warned him, and he had ignored every last one of them.

Dorian’s father once said that a man’s worth could be measured by his ambition. Dorian himself always fancied ambition to be worth remarkably little if, in its realisation, one fell to the folly of haste.

Just this once, he wished he had taken his own damn advice.

Sweat beading on his brow, running down his temples, Dorian backed all the way to the door only to find it had somehow been closed behind him, the act going unnoticed in his rush to protect his scribe. He snarled; a surprisingly vicious sound; as an assassin started forward, intending to rush the barrier. Dorian snapped his hand to the side, three bolts of fire shooting from his palm to catch the cowled man mid-flight. The assassin cried out, staggering, throwing his arms up to guard his face, but his clothing remained uncharred by the flames. In fact, the fire seemed to sweep past harmlessly, repelled like water from oiled canvas. _Of course_. Yes, he should have guessed they would be ready for combat with a mage of his particular specialty. These were no mere hired blades, after all.

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Dorian growled, face set in a snarl as he chose lightning, charging a bolt in his palm and sending it lancing forward. It hit one assassin, then leapt to a second, but again the effect seemed almost laughable. They slowed under the assault, only human and unnerved by the display, but did not stop. For all his power, Dorian was little more than an _inconvenience_ to them. By his side, Adiran’s breathing had started to come in short, panicked gasps; too little to fill the boy's lungs. They didn’t have much time. _He_ didn’t have much time. Turning, Dorian threw a hand towards the door, summoning magic to his palm and sending it scorching outwards in a bright, loud blast. If he could get them out and summon the city guards, then perhaps---

The sound of shattering glass ripped Dorian’s attention back to the room even as the door buckled and blasted outwards. The assassins standing by the window cried out in surprise, stepping away hastily as a figure swung into the room. A blur of black and brown, the person hit the ground, rolled, and was on their feet in less time than it took to bat an eye, twin blades flashing in their hands. For a moment, Dorian thought this might be another assailant, come to ensure the job was done thoroughly. But before that thought even reached completion, the stranger whirled on the assassins, slashing fast, feinting and dodging and weaving, harrying and harassing them in close quarters. It seemed the stranger’s arrival was as much as surprise to them as it had been to Dorian, and they scrambled to defend themselves, momentarily distracted from their quarry.

In the confusion, Dorian did the only thing he could. Grunting, he hauled Adiran up and made for the door, almost tripping over the debris, staggering out into the hallway. The boy’s blood ran freely down his front, now, staining the carpet red as they stumbled and wove chaotically. After a few hindered steps, Dorian opted to simply sweep the boy into his arms, ignoring the shriek of pain Adiran let out at the movement. The sound stole the breath from Dorian's chest in the worst possible way and he gritted his teeth, trying not to give in to the rising panic. The guilt. Adiran shook in his arms, tense with pain, eyes glassy and wide as he stared down at his wound.

_He’s just a boy. I shouldn’t have brought him. I shouldn’t have—_

Dorian reached the stairs just as a form came hurtling out of the room’s shattered doorway, skidding into the hall, a horror of black fabric and deadly blade. _Assassin_. Cursing, Dorian threw up another barrier, but before he could attempt to flee the man crashed into him, sending both Dorian and Adiran to the ground. They hit hard, and Dorian rolled on instinct just as the assassin's wicked blade slammed into the ground where his neck had been. Whatever it was made of, it sliced straight through the floorboards as though they were paper. With little left to his disposal, Dorian kicked out, catching the assassin in the side, knocking him towards the stairs. Unfortunately, the cloaked man managed to catch himself on the first step, avoiding the damaging fall that might have followed, and immediately launched himself back towards Dorian, who had barely had time to stagger to his feet.

Whether through skill or sheer luck, Dorian managed to catch the assassin’s wrists, that deadly blade stopping mere inches from his chest. Both men grunted, snarling, one’s face hidden by a mask, the other’s exposed and desperate. Despairing. _Livid_. Adiran lay in a crumpled heap, curled in on himself as if to guard the blade sheathed in his stomach. _He’s just a boy._ Dorian cried out, heaving back against the assassin, forcing the man back a half-step from the sudden force of it. _Just a boy_. His grip tightened on the assassin’s wrists, clamping down hard, the fitted fabric of the man’s sleeve slipping down as they struggled for dominance. _I should not have brought him._ For a split second, Dorian felt warmth against his palms – skin – and quite literally seized the opportunity with both hands. Ignoring the threat of that deadly blade, Dorian focused his magic, dropping his barrier and drawing its power into his attack, feeling it coil and writhe inside him. Then, just when he felt he could contain it no longer, he released it in a rush, the electricity discharging with a muted crack directly into the assassin’s exposed skin. The man screamed, arching, grip tightening on his blade, neck snapping back, body shaking. Dorian refused to let go, his eyes on the assassin, his heart on Adiran, his mind chanting a desperate mantra for it to all be over. The smell of something cooking, and then burning, rose thick in the air, until the assassin finally collapsed in a smoking heap on the floor. Without even thinking, Dorian snatched the man's blade and slipped it into his belt, them immediately staggered over the corpse and towards the crumpled form of his scribe.

“Adiran,” he rasped, exhausted, shaking as he turned the boy, rolling him onto his back. Dorian was greeted by the faintest of moans, but it set his exhausted heart racing again, newfound energy rising to flood his veins. “Come – that’s it. We’re fine. You will be fine.” He grunted, heaving the boy up again. Adiran did not cry out this time. In fact, he seemed barely aware of who Dorian was or what was happening, head lolling, eyes unfocused and half shut. Bitterly, Dorian could only think that was all likely for the best.

Dorian did not exit via the front of the establishment. The back door was closer, and his chariot was waiting down the side of the building. As soon as Dorian stumbled into sight, Valus, the driver, leaped to his feet, eyes blowing wide with shock. “Get the door open,” Dorian ordered as he ran towards it. “Now! Take us to Maevaris.” She had a spirit healer on staff – one who might be able to help. That was the boy’s only chance, Dorian feared, and even then it was slim. As he and Valus heaved the young man into the carriage, Dorian eyed the wound and felt a sick sensation churn in his stomach. _It was bad._ Any seasoned fighter would say the same. A slow, painful way to go.

Once inside the wagon, Valus immediately set the horses off at a canter, moving recklessly through the streets, hollering to move people out of the carriage’s way. Inside, Dorian cradled Adiran’s head in his lap, smoothing the boy’s hair, unable to find the words he deserved in such a moment. His hand worked what little magic he had left, trying to numb the area – ease the pain. _What could one truly say?_

“M… Magis…ter…” Adiran’s voice was barely above a whisper, and Dorian started, almost missing it for all Valus’ shouting and rein-cracking.

“Shh, hush now,” Dorian murmured almost reflexively, reaching to wrap a hand comfortingly around the young man’s wrist. Holding him. What else could he do? “Save your breath. We are almost at the healer.”

Adiran swallowed, flinched, then gasped at the contraction, his hands twitching painfully around the embedded blade. “A-Are y… s-safe?”

The expression on Dorian’s face would have been comical had it not been lined so heavily by grief. “Foolish boy,” he choked, shaking his head, fingers still combing soothingly through his tousled brown hair that seemed immune to any form of taming. Sucking in a shaking breath, Dorian pressed on, “I am fine, Adiran. Unharmed. You did well. You… did very well.”

Had the young man been more present, he might have disputed that claim, given the circumstances. But instead his feverish gaze seemed to brighten ever so slightly as it drifted upwards, focusing on the jolting roof of the carriage. Their green was dimmer than before; wilting fast like cut grass. All Dorian could do was helplessly beg the carriage to go faster.


	3. Chapter 3

Maevaris, as always, moved with the efficiency of a woman whose world always ran on perfect schedule. The moment Dorian’s carriage pulled up, she appeared as though summoned, whether warned by her own guards or Valus’ booming voice, Dorian could not say. Either way, it did not matter; the moment she saw Adiran she launched into action, sending a servant to fetch the healer before sliding beneath Adiran’s other arm herself and helping Dorian carry the boy along. “Maker’s breath, what happened to him?” she demanded as they ran into the manor, a cot already being wheeled down the hallway from one of the nearby rooms. “And if you are going to stop by unannounced, flowers never go astray.”

“Not now,” Dorian begged, and Maevaris seemed more than happy to oblige him in this instance. While both their instincts in the gravest moments were to make light, this time… this time Dorian just couldn’t bear it. What happened next was something of a blur, and the next thing Dorian knew, the boy had been whisked away by not just one healer, but a group, all speaking in fast, serious tones. The only thing that stopped Dorian from following them instinctively was Maevaris’ steadying hand on his shoulder. He turned to her, aggrieved, but she just shook her head, gaze sympathetic but firm.

“Let them work, Dorian. There is nothing either of us can do for him now.” Her pale gaze drifted to where they had disappeared down the corridor, voices fading in the distance. “I do not know who that boy was, but he is in good hands. The best, if Jahvri’s recommendations are to be believed.”

“One can only hope. _Maker’s breath_ …” Dorian sagged, and Maevaris quickly guided him over to a chair, steadying him by the arms as he collapsed into it. “How?” he continued, shaking his head, curving forward and burying his face in his hands. “How did I let this happen?”

“Hush.” She pulled him in close, letting Dorian’s head rest against her stomach, holding him without a care for the blood, both fresh and dried, that coated the front of his robe. “You _will_ tell me what happened, Dorian… but not now. You are safe here. That is what matters. Stay as long as you feel you must.”

“You are too good to me.”

“I am. But Maker knows you would do the same.”

To his credit, Dorian managed a faint smile at that. It was true, after all. But it wavered and fell all too quickly. Maevaris, perceptive as ever, gave the excuse of fetching tea for them to drink. As if she did not have staff for such an endeavour. But regardless, she made herself scarce, offering Dorian a moment’s reprieve, and he was grateful for the solitude. Suddenly overcome by a wave of exhaustion, Dorian raised his hands to rub at his eyes, then jolted as the sight of his own bloodstained palms sent a spike of panic through him. _Yes. Yes, of course_. As if reading his mind, a servant appeared with a warm, damp cloth, offering it to him for the time being and informing him a bath was being drawn and would be ready shortly. Maevaris was nothing if not a gracious host.

Sitting there, Dorian’s mind wandered back to that room at The Gilder. To the figure who had leapt in; a saviour of dark leather and flashing steel. Whoever that person had been, Dorian wagered he owed them his life. Perhaps even Adiran’s, if…

Dorian blanched and leaned forward heavily, resting his forearms on his knees, uncaring of how he might look to the guards flooding out to take up extra watch duties in the wake of his dramatic arrival. What he had done; attending that meeting; had been a mistake he could not afford to make. Not now. Certainly not again. A single error of judgement could mean the end of everything. Of himself. Of _others_. He was more than just a lone agent – a pariah acting out against an established ideal. Finally, he was in a position where his voice could be heard above the powerful ruling minority. If he allowed himself to be silenced through his own recklessness…

There was a sound from outside; men and woman shouting what sounded like a warning. Dorian launched to his feet, exhausted but rekindled by the thought that the assassins had given chase. The idea that he might have brought danger to Maevaris’ house left him sick and hollow inside, but as he attempted to rush out a pair of guardsmen stepped in front of the door, blocking his path. “Apologies, Magister Pavus,” one said, “but we are under strict orders.”

 _Of course they were._ Dorian’s lips curled disdainfully, but quickly his rational side caught up, winding tight around his anger and stemming its flow. He was drained. Exhausted and broken in too many ways. If he rushed out there, he would only be a liability.

A horn sounded – a few staccato bursts – and Dorian’s gaze flicked between the guards with an appropriate level of indignation for his station. “At least tell me what is happening,” he said, seeking compromise. “I trust you can do that much, yes?”

After sharing a nervous glance, the other guard spoke, her voice ringing within her helm. “An attempted breach of the estate’s wall, Magister Pavus. That last call was to say whoever made the attempt has been apprehended. They—”

Suddenly, the door behind the guards was thrown open, sending the pair staggering to the side and Dorian jumping back a step. Another group of Maevaris’ soldiers stormed in, a figure dragged between them, gripped tightly by the upper arms, surrounded by the threat of blades. Dorian’s heart raced, but it seemed their captive was not putting up much of a fight; an occasional grunt and jerk of resistance when a guard got a little too rough or a blade slipped a little too close, but nothing more. It was… well, rather _strange_. The group started moving past Dorian, their captive twisting, brown and black leather stained by blood...

… that was when Dorian recognised who it was.

“Wait! Stop!” Starting forward, Dorian placed himself between the guards and the hallway, cutting them off. The group immediately halted. They might be under Maevaris’ employ, but they were not so bold as to trample a Magister. Breathing harder than he had any need to be, Dorian held out a hand. It was trembling. “Wait. I know that armour. This person saved my life.”

There was a hush of uneasy tension that filled the room. “Apologies, Magister, but we are under strict orders—” one of the guards began, but then the captive spoke over the top of him.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was deep. Earnest. _Achingly familiar._ Something tightened in Dorian’s chest, his eyes widening at the sound. _No. It couldn’t be._ “I tried to keep them all in the room, but one slipped past, and I’m…” The figure shivered and hung his head, still cowled and masked. Only his eyes were visible, and Dorian caught a glimpse of them for the briefest moment. A bright, brilliant blue. “You got away.” The man continued weakly, almost to himself. Almost _relieved._ “For a moment I thought…”

“Release him,” Dorian breathed, stepping forward. But the guards did not comply, and his anger rose swiftly from the centre of his chest. “Did you not _hear_ me? I said—”

“It is all right.” Maevaris’ voice rang clear and crisp through the room. She had entered with a servant bearing a tray of tea, and while she seemed wary, her ability to read Dorian like an open book spurred her to act. She met Dorian’s grateful gaze and nodded to the guards. “Let him go.”

Immediately, the guards released the cowled man, who grunted and rubbed his arms where he had been held. Then, slowly, he straightened, his gaze rising to meet Dorian’s. They held each other’s stares for a time, neither entirely sure of what to say. What to _do_. Dorian’s mind was little more than a whitewash of emotion, fuzzy and uncertain, relieved and terrified all at once.

_What was he doing here? How did he…?_

“If you’re going to shout at me, can we at least do it without an audience?” Varlen’s voice was the same as Dorian remembered, but somehow different as well. Harder. Colder.

“I’m not…” Dorian trailed off, then licked his lips, glancing about the room full of armed men and women. “Maevaris, if you please… I would have a moment with this man. Alone.” Under her intense stare, Dorian gave her a pointed nod. “All is quite well. You have my word. Is there somewhere we might speak? Preferably a room without your dutiful guards present.”

“ _Dorian_ ,” Maevaris said warningly, but at the look on his face she just sighed, reaching up to rub her forehead with her fingertips. “Very well. _Fine_. This way.” She spared a glance for the newcomer. Or perhaps a _glare_ would be more fitting. “Attempt _anything at all_ and I will have you skinned and wear you like a coat. Understood?”

Dorian imagined Varlen would have paled beneath that mask, but his voice remained surprisingly resolute as he gave a small bow of his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

 _Yes ma’am._ It took all Dorian had to suppress a cringe as Maevaris arched a brow at the impropriety of it all. But he supposed, if nothing else, it was strangely comforting to know that some things had not changed _._


	4. Chapter 4

When the door closed behind them, the first thing Dorian did close the space between himself and the cowled figure. His hands reached out, thumbs brushing along the sides of Varlen’s covered face, both pleased and surprised to find his former lover did not jerk away from his touch.

So, Dorian removed the mask.

The elven man’s features were precisely how he remembered, although he supposed he shouldn’t really be surprised. It had only been just over a year, after all, since they had gone their separate ways for good. Discarding the mask, Dorian’s hands returned as though drawn by a mysterious force, ghosting along the sides of Varlen’s face, wanting so badly to feel the warmth of his skin, but uncertain of whether such intimate contact would be welcome. Instead, he allowed himself a moment of indulgence, drinking in the sight that stood before him. Those bright blue eyes, that pale vallaslin. Cheekbones that gave such pleasing shape to his face; lines Dorian had once loved to absently trace. They were more pronounced now, he realised vaguely. Varlen had gotten thinner. Then again, Dorian figured they both had neglected themselves in more ways than one. Nothing could drain a person quite like constant, unwavering stress.

In Dorian’s distraction, it was Varlen who was the first to speak. “Dorian… were you hurt?”

That question. _Why did everyone always ask that first?_ Pain flickered behind Dorian’s eyes and he lowered his hands, stepping away, the image of Adiran shivering in his arms suddenly too vivid. Too overwhelming. “I am well, Varlen.” He paused, collected himself, then added. “And you? I cannot imagine your entry through the second-storey window was a comfortable experience.”

A faint smirk flickered across Varlen’s lips and he shrugged, although a little stiffly. “It’s not so bad. If you do it right.” With a sigh, he reached up, tugging down his hood, hair spilling from its confine to tumble down past his shoulders. Dorian’s eyes widened at the sight. Still long, yes, but he wore it shorter than before. The demands of practicality. But more than anything, it was predominantly black. Dorian was stunned into silence for a good while, slowly taking in changes he thought he would never see. Varlen _loved_ his hair, proud to wear the same silver as his mother and sister. Now, only a few inches of it had grown, catching the wavering lamplight, no doubt awaiting the dyeing process. What followed the unveiling was an uneasy silence; one that seemed better suited to a funeral procession than an untimely reunion of former lovers. Then again, perhaps it was a perfect silence. After all, Dorian had no idea how to fill it.

Uncertainly, Varlen rose to the occasion, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Dorian… I know this isn’t what you wante—”

“No.” Dorian, it seemed, had found his voice. Funny, how easy it was to make the throw once the first stone had been cast. Varlen blinked, uncertain of what to make of single word, but Dorian just shook his head gently. “Varlen, if it is apology you are attempting, I would much rather you refrain.” He paused, a familiar discomfort gnawing at his stomach, but forced himself to continue. “I know that we left each other on rather _unfortunate_ terms. To put it mildly, of course. But if it is quite the same to you, I would rather not dwell on that particular conversation.” _The mistakes that I made._ “The… things that were said.”

Varlen licked his lips, and there was an air of uncertainty to the movement. For a time, Dorian feared he had done precisely the wrong thing; that their parting words might have been something Varlen needed to address and he had just crushed that need under heel. But then the elven man released a long-held breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he did so, and glanced up to meet Dorian’s gaze. “Yeah. All right, sure.” A faint smile quirked up the corner of his lips. “So… I take it you’re not going to lecture me, then?”

“Come now, let’s not be _entirely_ unreasonable.”

Varlen laughed, and Dorian found himself succumbing to the desire as well. It was a giddy feeling, especially considering what had just transpired, but a part of him simply couldn’t help it. His scribe was barely clinging to life, he had nearly been assassinated, and now his former lover stood before him swathed in black like a murderer from some cautionary tale. But he was smiling. _Laughing_.

These were strange times indeed.

They quieted after a moment, returning to a kind of still contemplation of one another, eyes locked. Focused. Neither seemed willing to break the connection. “I… had considered a number of outcomes. For my meeting with Magister Tellene, that is.” Dorian’s confession was soft, and he shook his head, still not quite believing what was happening. “But _this_ … well, this one had certainly failed to cross my mind.”

“I know.” Varlen was the first to break the stillness, looking away and moving over towards the window. He peeked through the curtains, squinting against the late-afternoon sun. What he was looking for, Dorian could not say. “I got most of them,” he eventually explained after glancing over his shoulder and catching Dorian’s perplexed expression. “But one of the assassins slipped past. I tried to chase him down, but the others cut me off and…” He pulled his lower lip between his teeth, eyes flicking back out to the front of Maevaris’ estate. There was shame in the expression. Whatever Varlen had intended, it clearly had not gone according to plan. Loose ends were always complicated, after all.

“I believe I ran into that fellow, yes,” Dorian said. Varlen turned sharply at that, eyes widening in alarm, and Dorian quickly gave a placating wave of his hand. “Now, now, not to fret. He was… dealt with.”

“But the clothing they had on was—”

“You will find little in this world that is _entirely_ mage-proof, Varlen.”

“Right. Yeah. Good point.” Varlen cleared his throat, nodding and letting the curtain fall back into place as he stepped away. He wiped his hands on his pants anxiously, and Dorian couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. After all, he knew why Varlen might be in such a state. But before Dorian could find the correct words, Varlen turned to face him, expression tense. “Well, are you going to ask me or not?”

“Ask you…?”

“Why I’m _here_ , Dorian.”

“Ah.” Dorian sighed, moving over to a sturdy mahogany table – a wood favoured by Maevaris and half the magisterium - and leaning against its edge. “Very well, then. Why are you here, Varlen?”

The elven man had seemingly expected an argument. He paused, mouth half open, and then closed it with a click of his teeth. He was clearly on edge; Dorian could read that much, at least. But despite it, Varlen pushed himself to speak. “I… heard rumours.”

Now it was Dorian’s turn to frown. “You will have to be a tad more specific, Varlen. A great many rumours have circled me of late.” He made a grand gesture at his bloodied robes. “Somewhat part of the office, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, well… part of the job or not, I didn’t like what I heard.” He was pacing now, that familiar restless energy demanding some kind of outlet. Dorian said nothing, simply letting Varlen sort through his thoughts. “I’d begged Leliana to keep an ear to the ground for me, and she…” He swallowed; shook his head. “People want you  _dead_ , Dorian. More than most Magisters. Which I guess is something of an achievement, but not exactly what I‘d been hoping to hear.”

“And that surprised you?”

“... No.” Varlen sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. Silver fading to black. “Just… do you know what it’s like? To be so far away and hear reports like that? Over and over again? First it’s unnamed mercenaries. Then trained assassins. Then suddenly  _any_  wealthy altus who can afford more than a single attempt on your life. Then the threats started coming from your fellow  _magisters_. Dorian…” Varlen shook his head, although he was unable to look over and meet Dorian’s gaze and his voice dropped to barely a whisper. “What was I supposed to do? Wait until I got the news that y… that you’d been…?”

The unfinished question was met with silence, heavy and uncomfortable. Dorian knew what he should say.  _You were supposed to stay away. It is not safe here for you_. That was, after all, the bitter note on which they had ended their relationship. Dorian had thought cutting ties was the only way to keep his amatus out of danger. But they were no longer a couple – there was no longer that sense of obligation – and Varlen had  _still_ come to him.

“I don’t know, Varlen.” It was the most honest answer Dorian had given anyone since returning to the Imperium, and it seemed Varlen sensed that by the way his gaze finally flicked over and stayed focused on him. “Things here… they have been difficult. On that matter, I will not lie. What I am attempting here was always going to breed some measure of hostility.” Slowly, painfully, he offered a weak smile. “If it is any consolation at all… this is the closest anyone has ever come to completing the deed. Your timing remains remarkable as eve—”

To Dorian’s surprise, Varlen  _snorted_. He seemed utterly amused, and Dorian stopped mid-sentence, uncertain what to make of the outburst. An apologetic look washed over Varlen’s face and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Sorry. It’s just… this wasn’t the closest. Not  _really_.”

Dorian felt his face go slack. “It wasn’t?”

Varlen shook his head. “There were a few times. At night, mostly. At your estate. Some were ready with poisons, waiting for you to head to your rooms for the evening. They planned to slip it into the water pitcher on your bedside table. Once was…” He paused, as if uncertain if he should continue, but after an encouraging nod from Dorian, he did. “It was your old scribe, Dorian. She was to deliver you a message, but the parchment was soaked through with  _something_. She wore gloves so she wouldn’t touch it, but knew you wouldn’t have any on after dinner.”

 _My scribe_. For the briefest moment, Dorian’s mind flickered to Adiran, but he quickly shooed the image away. No, not him. The one the boy had  _replaced_. “I thought she had simply fled my employ, the same as some of the others,” he murmured. Feeling strangely unsteady, he reached out, groping behind him, dragging one of the chairs out from beneath the table and sitting down. “Corellia. She had served my family for years. It was a shock, mind you, but I imagined many of my father’s old staff were less than pleased by my replacing him.” Then, Dorian looked up, grey eyes finding Varlen and fixing on the man. “So she… did you…?”

“I had to.” His voice was barely above a whisper, and Varlen closed his eyes, turning away. “She wanted to kill you, Dorian. What choice did I have?”

Dorian’s heart felt like stone, heavy and coarse. “Was she the only one? Among my household.”

“No.”

“And did you…?”

“Yes. I did.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Yes. I did.”

Varlen let out a shivering breath, but opened his eyes again. Just a touch. But he did not look at Dorian, and there was something defeated in the expression on his face. When Varlen worked up the will to speak again, his voice was hoarse, thick with a hurt that could not be described. To hear it tore Dorian apart.

“I’m sorry, Dorian. For all of it. I know you cared about them, but I couldn’t just let them go.” His voice had risen as he spoke, edging into something panicked and desperate. “M-Maybe I shouldn’t have done it. Come here. Interfered. I just…” His voice cracked, and something inside Dorian cracked with it as Varlen turned away sharply, almost desperate to look away. “I didn’t think it would be so…”

“Varlen… come now, none of that.” Dorian rose quickly, ignoring the lurch of unsteadiness that accompanied the movement, and crossed the room in a few long strides. He reached out, taking Varlen by the shoulders, finally seeing the pain the man had been so desperately trying to hide. Perhaps the mask had allowed him to pretend, for a time. Perhaps it had let him pretend it was someone else holding the blade and taking the lives. Now, that dark cloth lay abandoned on the floor, a black stain on Maevaris’ plush carpet. Dorian wanted nothing more than to burn it to ash. “Varlen… look at me. Please?” Slowly, the elven man’s gaze drifted up, glassy but stubborn, refusing to give in to the threat of likely much-needed tears. Dorian smiled faintly and brushed a strand of hair from Varlen’s face. “I owe you my life, it seems. Many times over. What you have done… it is a debt I can only ever hope to repay.”

Varlen just nodded, but the movement was stiff. With a pang, Dorian realised that was not what he should have said. Wincing internally, the mage forged onward. He had to find what Varlen needed to hear. “What you have endured… I can only imagine how difficult it must have been. Tell me; were you alone?”

“Leliana,” Varlen murmured, eyes on Dorian’s chest rather than his face. “She would send information. Leads. I just followed them. Got in the way as often as I could.” He paused, and then added even more softly, “Some were… harder than others. There aren’t many places for someone like me to go here, when things go wrong.” He snorted dryly. “You were right about that much, at least.” There was a bitterness to that last remark that stung like a slap.

“Oh Varlen…” Unable to help himself, Dorian just pulled the elven man into an embrace, holding him tight. At first, Varlen remained rigid, the way one might when dragged into an unexpected hug by an acquaintance. Polite endurance, nothing more. But then, after a few tense beats, he relaxed. Leaned into the embrace, wrapping his own arms around Dorian and pulling him close, burying his head in the crook of his neck. For a moment, everything almost felt like before. Dorian closed his eyes. Breathed in the familiar scent of his amatus.  _Maker’s breath…_

Dorian had no idea how badly he had missed this. How badly he had missed  _him_.

“I have made so many mistakes,” Dorian murmured, shaking his head slightly, arms refusing to let go of Varlen. “More than I have any right to. But… how we left things…”

He felt Varlen shift against him, but he made no attempt to extract himself from the embrace, settling to mumble against Dorian’s shoulder. “It was bad, wasn’t it?” Dorian just nodded, and Varlen continued. “I won’t lie. A part of me wanted to wash my hands of you. It seemed… for the best, in a way. I didn’t want to admit it at the time, but you were right. Coming to Tevinter and standing at your side... it would have been too dangerous. There is just no way we could… be  _us_  here.”

A thought suddenly occurred to Dorian that saw cold flood his skin. “Varlen, I need to make something clear that I may have neglected. It is true, we can never be what we were in Ferelden here, but it is not because I do not  _want_  it.” He tightened his grip instinctively. “Maker’s breath, even back then, against my better judgement, I wanted it more than anything. But… the thought that you would come here because of me, and place yourself at risk…” Dorian felt his throat constrict but attempted to talk through it. “ _If something happened to you_ …”

“Stop. Dorian _.._.” Varlen’s words were firm, but his touch remained gentle. He pulled back, taking Dorian in, and it was only the expression of concern that flashed across his face that made Dorian aware of the fact that he was, indeed, crying. Perhaps it was his exhaustion or his worry for Adiran, or his discovery of Varlen struggling in the heart of the one place he had tried to spare him from. Perhaps it was a culmination of all the day’s miserable, bloody events. But regardless of the reason, silent tears had crept past Dorian’s careful guard, and he regretted them immediately. Ashamed of himself, Dorian made to wipe them away in a harsh motion, but Varlen beat him to it. And his hands were gentle. His gloves soft. Without dismissal, he brushed away the first sign that, finally, Dorian had reached a limit he was not prepared to handle.

At least, not alone.  

“You shouldn’t be here,” Dorian breathed, his voice only shaking ever so slightly. It was the most composed anyone could be while crying their eyes out, he liked to imagine. It helped lessen the sting a touch. “Amatus, this is too dangerous. I won’t be responsible for dragging you into it. I  _can’t_.”

“Well that’s fine. Because you aren’t.” The words were so simple, and Varlen spoke them with such conviction that it actually gave Dorian pause. A faint smile managed to find its way to Varlen’s lips and he held Dorian’s face in his hands, keeping their gazes locked. “We broke up, Dorian. There was, as you said, no obligation for me to come here.”

“You came anyway,” Dorian murmured. Varlen nodded.

“I came anyway.”

“After everything I said to you. Everything I…”

“Yeah, well…” Varlen gave a faint shrug. It was meant to appear dismissive, but deep down, Dorian could only imagine how many months it must have taken for him to perfect it. “Turns out it was going to take more than a bad fight to keep me away. Whether we’re together or not, Dorian, I  _care_  about you. You’re my friend as much as you were… more than that.” He swallowed, taking a second to collect himself. “The fact of the matter is, I believe in what you’re trying to do.  _Fenedhis,_ I  _want_  you to succeed. I know I can’t help out in the open, so I figured I would do it my way, and it was actually working.”

“Until today.”

“Until today,” Varlen agreed quietly. He let go of Dorian, the tears having ceased as they spoke, and took a single step back. Not too far, but far enough. “I… messed up, today. I was too slow. I didn’t pay enough attention to the obvious threat, and it…” Varlen bit his lip, glancing towards the door. “Creators... he’s so young, Dorian. Just a kid.”

“I know.” Dorian’s voice was husky, and there was no helping it. He could still see Adiran’s shocked expression; that vacant stare at the roof of the carriage; and it pained him in a way that he simply could not describe. “But it was not your fault, Varlen. Do not blame yourself. What you have been doing… it is already more than I deserve.”

“No, it isn’t.” Varlen stepped forward again, resting one hand on Dorian’s shoulder, squeezing intently. “Dorian, this would be a lot easier for both of us if you would just  _let_   _me_ help you _._  It’s hard enough hiding from the rest of Tevinter without having to dodge you too.”

To Dorian’s surprise, a dry laugh managed to escape him. “You say it as though you will continue regardless of my answer.”

“Funny. That’s probably because I will.”

“You remain stubborn as ever.”

“Did you expect that to change?”

Varlen smiled, and Dorian even managed a weak one back, not sure what precisely was happening between them but grateful for it nonetheless. But something remained unspoken; something Dorian could not simply ignore. “Varlen… if you are to remain…”

“It’s like you said,” Varlen said, cutting him off quickly. “We can’t be what we were in Ferelden. I get that. If we’re seen publicly together… well, let’s just say it wouldn’t help you start this movement of yours.”

“Not when the people I am attempting to  _move_  possess more prejudice than sense,” Dorian agreed reluctantly. “No, of course. You are right. We couldn’t.”

There was a pause. A long one. “I mean… did you actually…?” The words left Varlen so awkwardly that it reminded Dorian of when they had first met. A pocket of warmth filled his chest as the elven man continued hurriedly. “I mean, yeah. No way. It couldn’t work…. right?”

“No. Not at all.”

The pause returned. Then Varlen said something that caught Dorian completely off-guard.

“You called me  _amatus_.”

Dorian blinked. “What? When?”

“Before. When you were… y’know…” He gestured to his face. “Crying.”

“Well now that’s hardly fair, to judge a man when he is so  _clearly_ out of—”

— “Did you mean it?”

Dorian stopped. His mouth hung slightly open, as though in the process of giving voice to defensive words, but no sound passed his lips.  _Had he meant it?_ Thinking back, he did not even recall it, but he had no reason whatsoever to believe Varlen was lying. In the end, that meant only one thing.

“Yes.”

He had said that word; a word that carried so much weight. A word he had not been able to utter since they parted. A word he had dreaded and sampled and discarded more times than he could count. If he had truly said it, after all this time, and without even realising… then yes. He meant it more than anything.

His response seemed to stir something in Varlen because he sniffed suddenly, blue eyes flicking away as though the far wall suddenly offered something incredibly interesting. “I…” He let out a watery laugh. “I really fucking missed that, you know? The way you’d say it.”

Dorian didn’t bother holding back this time. He just reached out, turned Varlen towards him, and kissed him. Their lips pressed together, warm and soft and everything he remembered; Maker, everything he had  _wanted_  for so long. There was no stiffening of surprise from Varlen. Not even a hitching of breath as Dorian’s tongue swiped along the inner curve of his lips, tentatively seeking more. If anything, he had been more ready for the moment than Dorian himself, who had initiated it. Varlen opened his mouth, inviting Dorian in, one hand threading through his hair, the other sliding past up his arm and coming to rest on his shoulder, holding him in place. Holding him  _close_. Dorian turned them both, moving a few mindless steps until Varlen was against the table, their lips still locked, hands roaming one another as though feeling their shapes for the first time. And in a way, there was a newness of it. The newness of a fire rekindled.

Dorian broke the kiss for a moment, rasping a breath, neither drawing away not pushing for more. “ _Amatus_ …” he breathed, shaking his head, not quite believing what was happening. Not quite believing how badly he had needed it, all this time. A low chuckled curled from Varlen’s chest, meeting the fond curve of his lips.

“There it is…” Varlen’s eyes were closed, almost peaceful, his head cocked slightly to the side as though listening to beautiful music somewhere in the distance. Then, slowly, his eyes fluttered open to catch Dorian’s. Dorian’s expression was, understandably, confused, but Varlen just smiled, his thumb brushing along the curve of Dorian’s cheek.

“How you said it. That was it.” Understanding flickered in Dorian’s eyes and Varlen leaned in, stealing a quick, chaste kiss, smiling against his lips. “It was just like that.”  


	6. BONUS CHAPTER: Adiran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had some requests on Tumblr for closure regarding young Adiran, so for the sake of completion, I'll post it here too!

Dorian and Varlen both decided to take Maevaris up on her offer to spend time at her estate. There was an element of safety to it, of course. Anyone seeking to harm Dorian would be unlikely to look in the home of a different Magister, at least for a time, and Varlen could personally vouch for the training of her guards. But there was another concern – a rather pressing one – that went unspoken between the three of them as they haunted the sitting room. It was visible primarily in the stiffness of Dorian’s posture. In the erratic tapping of his fingers on armrests. In the way he would suddenly lurch to his feet and pace, robes shifting smoothly, his brow the only thing bearing any form of crease. Varlen and Maevaris both watched helplessly from a pair of plush sitting chairs, commiserating in their shared worry of Dorian, whose words had slowed to only a handful per infrequent conversation. To her credit, Maevaris had become significantly more accommodating once she knew exactly who Varlen was, both to Dorian and the Inquisitor.

For Varlen, it remained a source of bitter amusement how much of his worth was defined by other people. But he supposed that could not be helped, given the company he kept.

“I’ve never seen him like this before,” Maevaris remarked on the second afternoon of their extended visit, a cup of tea in one hand, the index finger of her other tracing absently around its rim. Dorian had taken to examining the array of ornate cups in of Maevaris’ many cabinets, although it was clear to anyone watching that he held no particular interest in them. Her pale gaze flicked across to Varlen, lips quirking slightly at the corner. “Has he been similar during your… moments alone?”

Varlen couldn’t help but arch an eyebrow at that. “If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, I assure you we have been nothing but perfect guests.” They shared a soft laugh at that, but the humour quickly faded, Varlen’s mouth drawing into a thin line as he watched his vhenan. “He’s worried. He got like this sometimes, back at Skyhold. When things went wrong. Usually when I screwed up and got myself hurt. Even afterwards, at Halamshiral, when Riv— uh, the  _Inquisitor_ — lost her arm.” Varlen followed Dorian’s slow, mindless movements with his eyes. “When he can’t figure out how to help, he just starts drifting around like a wraith. It worried me back then, and it worries me now.”

“Mm. Yes, Dorian has never coped well with feeling helpless,” Maevaris agreed with a sigh, shaking her head slightly. “For a man of his intellect, he can be remarkably foolish at times. No one can do everything.  _Fix_ everything.”

Varlen snorted softly. “Yeah. That won’t stop him from trying, though. And hating himself when he can’t.”

“I would never suggest otherwise. I know him too well for that.”

A faint smile tugged up the corner of Varlen’s lips. It stayed there even as Dorian abandoned the cabinet to slip down the hallway, pretending to admire the artwork Maevaris had on display. “Thank you, by the way.”

Maevaris waved a hand gracefully. “Nonsense. Having guests has been quite nice. It has been too long since I have had the pleasure of playing host.” And she was very good at it, Varlen had to admit. “Assuming that is to what you are referring, of course.”

“Partly,” Varlen said, “but it’s about more than just these past few days. It’s been… hard, only being able to watch from a distance. Seeing when things are… not so good with him.” Drawing his lower lip between his teeth, Varlen glanced across at Maevaris and managed a small smile. “It’s meant more than you realise. Dorian actually having someone here who he can trust.”

“A shared benefit,” she said simply. There was a faint air of dismissal about the remark, but the warmth in her gaze betrayed her. That could only mean she was not trying to hide it. “Building his own household will help. It is always a risk, stepping into the lair of another Magister and claiming it as your own. Even when that Magister was your own father. The ideals of the employer often blur into those of their servants. I have always advocated the importance of a clean slate, but I imagine the prospect of firing all his staff would send Dorian’s sweet heart into a twist.”

At the mention of households and servants, a tension returned to the conversation. Varlen released a slow breath, sinking into the plush chair, imagining that the cushions were reaching out, bearing some of the strain. “I just hope that kid’s all right,” he murmured. “For his sake, and for Dorian’s.”

“As do I.” Maevaris’ attention shifted slightly as a servant entered from one of the side rooms. “That has always been Dorian’s fatal flaw. He cares too deeply too quickly.”

Varlen frowned as Maevaris delicately drained the last of her tea. “That’s not a flaw.”

“Perhaps not in most places. But here?” She rose to her feet in preparation to meet the servant as he approached, but spared a glance back down to Varlen. “I am not being cruel, Varlen. The Imperium has built itself on suffering for too long. Almost everyone has a tragic story to tell. If they do not… then the tragedy is simply slow in its arrival.”

The remark left Varlen frozen in his chair, her words drifting through his mind. Maevaris and the servant exchanged a few soft-spoken words before the Magister turned down the corridor, her back to Varlen. “Dorian.”

“Hmm?” He turned, distracted, but his gaze snapped into sharp focus as he regarded Maevaris. “Yes? Is it…?”

“He is stable.” She smiled, beckoning for Dorian to follow as she turned towards the infirmary. A kind of energy returned to Dorian’s movements, his steps carrying him swiftly yet imperiously down the corridor to fall into line with Maevaris. Varlen leapt to follow suit, not entirely sure why his heart was racing. He knew nothing about the kid, after all.  _But Dorian cared._  Cared deeply, as Maevaris had said. To see him so relieved…?

Well, to Varlen, that was something worth celebrating.

* * *

Dorian was by the side of the bed in a flash as soon as the door to the infirmary was opened.

“He is still very weak,” Jahvri, the famed spirit-healer, warned from the doorway. “I did what I could, but recovery will still take time. He will need rest, and to follow a strict diet until he is fully mended.”

“Yes… yes, of course,” Dorian murmured, eyes locked on the boy’s currently dozing form. Then, sensing he had been rude, he turned and gave a grateful bow to the healer. Maevaris arched a brow, amused, and Jahvri’s eyes went wide in shock at the show of deference from someone of Dorian’s station. “My thanks. I owe you a great deal, Jahvri. You are a credit to your field.”

“I… y-yes, of course. Is has been an honour to serve.” The healer bowed back hesitantly, and while Varlen knew the returned courtesy was not expected, Dorian did not fluster the man further by pointing it out. The healer left with Maevaris, their discussion already turning to the practical matter of supply replenishment before the door had even closed.

Releasing a tense breath, Dorian turned back to the bed. Wordlessly, Varlen took one of the chairs from the edge of the room and brought it over, nudging it into the back of Dorian’s knees; a silent instruction to sit. With a grateful glace, Dorian sank down, and Varlen rested a comforting hand on his shoulder. “What are you going to do with him?” Varlen asked after a long period of quiet where they just gazed down at the young man, his once tanned skin still far paler than was healthy for him. A frown flickered across Dorian’s brow at the question, but it was more perplexed than angry.

“He will return to my estate, of course. I am hoping Maevaris will let me borrow one of her healers to watch over him, in case of…” He did not say the word  _complications_ , but it was implicit. “It is my understanding Jahvri is training some apprentices in the art.”

Varlen cocked his head, still regarding the young man. . “He’s… what? Eighteen?”

“Seventeen. As of two weeks ago, when I hired him.” Dorian let out a soft huff of air. “Assuming he did not lie about his age, of course. Many do.”

Varlen frowned. “Why?”

“Desperation.” Sitting back a bit in his chair, Dorian reached up to his shoulder and rested his hand over Varlen’s. “It is not only slaves who suffer in Tevinter, amatus. Of course, their suffering is terrible, but some of them were free men and women who chose to sell themselves into that life.” He shook his head. “What one must have had to endure to even  _consider_  such a thing, I cannot even imagine. I… had a feeling he was close to that. Adiran. Maker’s breath, you should have seen the look on his face when I hired him.” Releasing a weary sigh, Dorian seemed to sink beneath Varlen’s touch. “A thing he is likely regretting, now…”

Varlen truly had nothing to say to that, so he just squeezed Dorian’s shoulder in what he hoped was a gesture of comfort. Then a thought struck him, and he looked more closely at the boy. “Doesn’t he have family? Won’t they be worried about him?”

But Dorian just shook his head. “If what he told me was true, and I have no reason to doubt his word, the only family he has left is an older brother.”

“Then won’t he be—”

— “No.” Dorian’s expression saddened as he regarded the sleeping Adiran. “It is my understanding that his brother was meant to be looking out for him. But it is as we discussed, amatus. Desperate people often turn to desperate things. They drift towards other people in dire straits and end up in a worse place than where they started.” He hesitated, as if uncertain of whether or not to continue, but eventually did. “Adiran said he started looking for a way out when he stopped feeling safe in his own home. I doubt coming to me was his first choice, given my reputation, but…”

Dorian trailed off as the boy began to stir, his brow twitching, eyelids flickering as though struggling to open. Varlen let go as Dorian sat up straighter, reaching out to rest a careful hand on the young man’s forearm. A quiet reassurance that he was not alone.

Slowly, Adiran’s eyes fluttered open. He winced, flinching away from the light streaming in through the curtains, and Varlen moved quickly to draw them half-closed, letting the room dip into a more manageable darkness.  For his part, Adiran seemed utterly confused, blinking back tears from waking, his green eyes drifting uncertainly about the room. “W… Where am…?”

“Safe, Adiran,” Dorian said initially, and his voice seemed to spark some kind of recognition in the young man’s eyes. “No harm will find you here. Tell me - how are you feeling?”

Adiran swallowed thickly, dry tongue flicking out to sweep over dryer lips. “Tired…” He gave another slow blink, then turned his head slightly, a strand of brown hair drifting down to flop over his forehead. Then, in a sudden rush, his eyes widened in a kind of half-panic. “I… M-Magister Pavus, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Hush, hush,” Dorian said hurriedly, giving Adiran’s forearm a light squeeze to calm him. “It is quite all right. I am willing to forgive a few breaches of formality when my staff return from death’s door.”

Varlen snorted at that. “Benevolent of you.”

“A symptom of my bleeding heart.”

At the sound of Varlen’s voice Adiran’s focus shifted, those confused green eyes moving to rest on him. “Are you… the healer…?”

A faint smile played across Varlen’s lips as he approached the bed so the boy wouldn’t have to strain to see him. “Who me? Nah. I’m just…” He glanced at Dorian, then back to Adiran. “A friend of Magister Pavus.”

“A friend,” Adiran repeated dreamily, seeming still half-asleep. He sniffed, then shifted, then froze. Slowly, fearfully, he lifted his head and looked down at himself, paling in what Varlen could only imagine was dread… then released a huge sigh of relief when he saw no sign of the blade. No blood. No  _pain_. Adiran moved his arm – pointedly  _not_  the one Dorian was holding - and patted softly over the spot where the dagger had been buried. “It’s…  _gone_.”

“Ah, yes. We discussed leaving it in. As a keepsake and such. Sadly, the healer decreed that to be a rather poor idea.” Dorian’s habit of joking when he was feeling emotional left Varlen rolling his eyes, but he would be lying if he said it didn’t tug on his heartstrings when Adiran gave a small huff of amusement, his pale lips curving into a smile. However, just as Varlen was starting to think it was all going rather well, the young man’s expression froze, then tensed, then wavered, then crumbled all in one painful motion. Eyes Varlen had assumed were watery from having just woken spilled over, and he and Dorian exchanged an alarmed glance as the young man descended into hard, sudden sobs.

“Adiran, what’s the matter? Are you in pain?” Alarmed, Dorian had half risen out of his chair, but before he could run off and demand a healer, Adiran reached out and clutched weakly at the sleeve of his robe. Dorian stopped, as did Varlen, both men simply gawking at the sobbing boy in stunned silence.

“ _T-Thank you_ ,” he stammered between ragged breaths, chest heaving, face soaked with tears. How he had the energy left to cry, Varlen would never know, but he’d be lying if he said the sight didn’t leave his chest feeling tight. “W-When I… when I  _saw_ … I thought…  I-I thought you’d just…”

Standing by awkwardly, Varlen wasn’t quite sure what it was Adiran was trying to say. But Dorian seemed to understand immediately, his expression softening from sharp panic into something fond and reassuring as he lowered himself down onto the side of Adiran’s bed. “Come now, none of that.” He took one of Adiran’s hands between his and clasped it gently, hoping to calm the boy down. “No need for tears, yes? All is well. I was never going to leave you behind, Adiran.” A faint, concerned smile tugged up the corner of Dorian’s lips as Adiran succumbed to another shuddering sob at the reassurance, and he tried a different tactic. “After all, you are my shiny new  _scribe_ , remember? How would I ever cope without you? I’d have to scour the city – interview every man, woman, and child! That is a lot of work, you know. Dreadful stuff.”

To Varlen’s shock,  _that_  actually mustered a wet laugh from Adiran, who was struggling to regain some kind of composure, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand while at the same time trying to hide his face. It was only in that moment that Varlen realised the kid actually thought Dorian would have  _abandoned_ him. A sick sensation crawled up the back his throat when he considered what Dorian had done. It would probably be considered very out of the ordinary, particularly for a Magister, as opposed to simply the right thing to do. Suppressing a shiver of disgust at the revelation, Varlen spied a small rectangle of cloth folded on a nearby table. He picked it up and headed over to the pair, shaking it out and offering it to Adiran with what he hoped was a kind smile. Given that the young man mustered a wavering smile back as he took it, Varlen figured he had met his mark, then glanced up and caught Dorian watching him, gratitude evident in his gaze.

“Thank you,  _amatus_.”

“Of course.” His gaze flicked back to Adiran and he added playfully. “Can’t let his one get too upset, right? Or that healer will come back and scold us until our ears bleed.”

Adiran snorted softly into the cloth, but at the mention of ears, his eyes drifted down the length of Varlen’s, seeming almost…  _fascinated_  by their length. That registered as a bit strange to Varlen, given the Imperium had no shortage of elves among its slave population, but then Adiran murmured a word that made Varlen’s heart stutter to a stop. “ _Amatus…_?”

 _Shit._  Varlen and Dorian exchanged a swift glance. Neither of them had even noticed the slip-up, but apparently Adiran had. “I, uh…” Varlen began, mind whirring frantically, trying to come up with some semi-reasonable explanation. A  _rhyming word_ , even. However, before he had the chance, a soft sound drew his attention. Back to Adiran.

The kid was  _smiling_.

Just a little bit. Just enough. He lowered the cloth to just below his chin, the fabric held loosely in his hand. “It’s okay. It’s…  _nice_ …” He spoke slowly, sleepily, and Varlen saw him squeeze Dorian’s hand ever so slightly, as if in reassurance.  It was a bold move that the kid would have never even considered under different circumstances, but it seemed his regular inhibitions had abandoned him for a time. With a little pang of amusement, Varlen wondered if Adiran would ever come to realise how little Dorian minded; how much he probably  _approved_. “Y’should visit… manor… sometime…” He yawned, bright green eyes growing more bleary and unfocused with each extended syllable, his breathing slowing to something calm and steady. Not wanting to disturb him, Dorian and Varlen just waited patiently for the few minutes it took for Adiran to drift back to a deep, much-needed sleep. Then, carefully, Dorian let out a soft breath, lowered Adiran’s hand back to the bed, and rose to his feet. They shared a brief wince as the bed creaked.

The boy did not stir.

“Maker’s breath,” Dorian murmured softly. There was a quaver to his voice and Varlen quickly moved to his side, sliding an arm around Dorian’s shoulders, drawing him in close. Without hesitation, Dorian leaned into the embrace, gaze still resting on Adiran, expression tight as he fought to maintain control of his emotions. “Did you  _hear_  him?” he asked after a moment, voice hoarse. “He thought I would—” Dorian choked off, and Varlen made a soft sound, rubbing his arm soothingly until he was ready to speak again. “ _Maker_ , what manner of person could ever abandon someone like that?”  _Like him._

Sometimes, words were not enough, and they both knew it. So Varlen just shook his head, turning to press a soft kiss into Dorian’s hair, reaching around to draw him into a proper embrace. “I have no idea, vhenan. If he exists, I never want to meet him.”

They were both tired.  _Exhausted_. But holding one another, with Adiran sleeping so soundly nearby, peaceful and quiet and  _alive,_ Varlen knew at least one impossible weight had finally been lifted from Dorian’s shoulders.  

For now, that would be enough.


End file.
